Текст книги "The Skin Collector"

Автор книги: Jeffery Deaver

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

CHAPTER 40

Answer!

Please answer! Sachs gripped her mobile hard and shivered in hopeless rage when Pam’s voice mail came on.

‘If you’re at home, Pam, get out of your house! Now! Go to the Eighty Fourth Precinct. Gold Street. I think the perp in our case is at your place.’

Her eyes met Rhyme’s, his face equally troubled, and she jammed her finger onto the redial button.

Rhyme asked, ‘Is she working? Or at school?’

‘I don’t know. She works odd hours. And’s in school part time this semester.’

Ron Pulaski called, ‘There should be a unit there in seven, eight minutes.’

But the question: Is it too late?

The hollow buzzing of the phone filled the speaker.

Goddamn it. Voice mail once more.

No, no …

‘Sachs–’

She ignored Rhyme and hit the redial button again. Why the hell hadn’t they put protection on Pam full time? True, their unsub’s targets – like the Bone Collector’s – were random and the Skin Collector surely didn’t even know she existed, they’d assumed. But now, of course, he’d decided to target not only those tracking him down, but their friends and family too. It wouldn’t be impossible to discover Pam’s relationship to Rhyme and Sachs. Why hadn’t–

Click. ‘Amelia,’ Pam said, breathless. ‘I got your message. But I’m not home. I’m at work.’

Sachs lowered her head. Thank you, thank you …

‘But Seth’s there! He’s there now. He’s waiting for me. We’re going out later. Amelia, what … what should we do?’

Sachs got his mobile and spun to Pulaski. ‘Call Seth!’ She shouted the number across the room. The young officer dialed fast.

‘The doors are locked, Pam?’

‘Yes, but … Oh, Amelia. Are police there?’

‘They’re on their way. Stay where you are. And–’

‘Stay where I am? I’m going home. I’m going there now.’

‘No. Don’t do that.’

Pam’s voice was ragged, accusatory. ‘Why’s he doing this? Why is he at my  apartment?’

‘Stay where–’

The girl hung up.

‘It’s ringing.’ Pulaski’s expression changed instantly.

‘Speaker,’ Rhyme snapped.

The young officer hit the button. Seth’s voice came from the line. ‘Hello?’

‘Seth, it’s Lincoln Rhyme.’

‘Hey, how–’

‘Listen to me carefully. Get out. Somebody’s breaking into the apartment. Get out now!’

‘Here? What do you mean? Is Pam all right?’

‘She’s okay. Police are coming but you have to get out. Drop whatever you’re doing and leave. Go out the front door and get to the Eighty Fourth Precinct. It’s on Gold Street. Or at least some populated place. Call Amelia or me as soon as–’

Seth’s next words were muted, as if he was turning and the phone was no longer next to his mouth. ‘Hey!’

A sound like breaking glass could be heard and another voice, a man’s: ‘You. Put the phone down.’

‘The hell’re you–’

Then several thuds. Seth screamed.

And the line went dead.

CHAPTER 41

The squad cars beat Amelia Sachs to Pam’s apartment.

But not by much.

Sachs had kept the gears low in her Torino, the RPMs high, and her foot largely off the brake as she sped to Brooklyn Heights. Sidney Place, a narrow street ending at State, runs north, one way, but that didn’t stop Sachs from pounding the Ford the opposite way, sending several oncoming cars up on the sidewalk, squeezing for protection between the many trees here. One rattled elderly driver scraped a fender on the stairs of St Charles Borromeo church, tall and red as a fire truck.

Sachs’s fierce eyes, more than the blue dashboard flasher, cleared the way with little resistance.

Pam’s apartment building was shabbier than most here, a three story walk up, one of the few gray buildings in a neighborhood of crimson stone. Sachs aimed for the semicircle of police vehicles and an ambulance. She laid on the horn – no siren in the Torino – and parted the craning neck crowd then gave up and parked. She sprinted to the door, noting that the ambulance door was open but there were no EMS techs nearby. Bad sign. Were they working away desperately on Seth?

Or was he dead?

In Pam’s apartment hallway, a stocky uniform glanced at the shield on her belt and nodded her in. She asked, ‘How is he?’

‘Dunno. It’s a mess.’

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at caller ID. Pam. Sachs debated but let it ring. She didn’t have anything to tell her yet.

I will in a few minutes, she thought. Then wondered what exactly the message would be.

A mess …

Pam lived on the ground floor, a small dark space of about six hundred square feet, whose resemblance to a jail cell was enhanced by the exposed brick walls and tiny windows. Such was the price of living in a posh neighborhood like the Heights, the center of town when Brooklyn was a city unto itself.

She stepped inside and saw two officers.

‘Detective Sachs,’ one said, though she didn’t recognize him. ‘You running the scene? We’ve cleared it. Had to make sure–’

‘Where is he?’ She looked past the uniform but then she realized that, of course, the Underground Man would have taken Seth to the basement.

The officer confirmed that he was in the cellar. ‘The medics, coupla detectives from the Eight Four.’ He shook his head. ‘They’re doing the best they can. But.’

Sachs tossed her hair off her shoulder. Wished she’d banded it up outside. No time then, no time now. She turned and headed back into the corridor, which smelled of onion and mold and some powerful cleaner. It turned her stomach. She found herself walking slowly. The sight of death or gore didn’t bother her; you don’t sign on to crime scene work if that troubles you. But the looming thought of a somber call to Pam was a sea anchor.

Or given that the perp’s weapon of choice was toxins, even a non fatal injury could be devastating: blindness, nerve or brain damage, kidney failure.

She found the door to the cellar and started down the rickety stairs. Overhead bulbs lit the way, bare and glaring. The basement was well underground, with slits of greasy windows at ceiling level. The large expanse, which smelled astringently of furnace fuel and mildew, was mostly open but there were several smaller areas with doorless entryways, maybe storerooms at one time. It was into one of these that the perp had dragged Seth. She could see the backs of one detective and one uniform in the room, both looking down.

Her heart thudded as she also noted a medical tech standing with crossed arms outside the doorway, peering in. His face, a mask.

He looked at her blankly and nodded, then glanced back into the storeroom.

Alarmed, Sachs stepped forward, peered in and stopped.

Seth McGuinn, shirtless, lay on the damp floor, hands under him – probably cuffed like the other victims. His eyes were closed and his face was as gray as the ancient paint on the troubled cellar walls.

CHAPTER 42

‘Amelia. They don’t know,’ said one of the uniformed officers, standing near Seth. His name was Flaherty and she knew the big, redheaded officer from the Eight Four.

Two other medics were working on Seth, clearing an airway, checking vitals. She could see on the portable monitor that, at least, his heart was beating, if weakly.

‘Did the perp tattoo him?’ She couldn’t see his abdomen from here.

Flaherty said, ‘No.’

Sachs said to the medics, ‘Might be propofol. That’s what he’s been using. To knock them out.’

‘A sedative’s consistent with this condition. He’s not convulsing and there are no gastrointestinal reactions and his vitals are stable so I’d guess it’s not a toxin.’

Sachs moved to the side and noted a red spot on Seth’s neck – where 11 5 had used the hypodermic. ‘There. See the injection site?’

‘Right.’

‘He’s done that in all the prior cases. Is he–’

A moan. Shivering suddenly, Seth opened his eyes. Blinked in confusion. Then alarm flooded his face; he would be first wondering, then recalling, how he’d ended up here.

‘I … What’s going–’

‘It’s okay, sir,’ one of the medics said.

‘You’re all right; you’re safe,’ Flaherty said.

‘Amelia!’ Urgent, though groggy.

‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Did he poison me?’

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

One of the medics asked a series of questions about possible symptoms. They jotted the young man’s responses. The EMT said, ‘All right, sir. We’ll have the lab run your blood but it’s looking like he just got some sedative into you. We’ll get you into the ER and run a few more tests, but I think you’re good.’

Sachs: ‘Can I ask him a few questions?’

‘Sure.’

Sachs donned gloves, helped him sit up and removed the handcuffs. Wincing, Seth lowered his arms and rubbed his wrists. ‘Man, that hurts.’

‘Can you walk?’ The scene down here was already badly contaminated, but she wanted to preserve as much as she could. ‘I’d like to get you upstairs into the hallway.’

‘I guess. Maybe with some help.’

She eased him up. With her arm around his waist, he staggered through the basement and up the stairs. In the front hallway they sat on the stairs leading to the second story.

The front door opened once more and Sachs greeted the Crime Scene team from Queens. The detective running the detail was an attractive young officer named Cheyenne Edwards, one of the stars of the department. Her specialty was chemical analysis. If a perp had a molecule of controlled substance or gunshot residue on his body, Edwards could find it. She also had a rep, as in reputation, as in gold.

As in don’t fuck with her.

Once, she and her partner had been confronted by a perp who’d returned to a scene to collect the loot he’d left behind. The killer, surprised by the cops, had turned his weapon first on the older, broad shouldered CS officer, assuming the pretty young woman would be less of a threat – only to find out the hard way that this wasn’t quite the case. Edwards had reached into her pocket, where her Taurus .38 backup rested, and fired through the cloth, parking three slugs in his chest. (‘Looks like, we just solved the case,’ she’d noted but continued to search the scene expertly, because that was just what you did.)

‘Chey, you run the scene, okay?’ Sachs asked.

‘You got it.’

Then to Seth: ‘So, tell me what happened.’

The man told Sachs about the initial assault, which they’d heard part of on the phone. A man in mask and gloves had broken the patio door and lunged as Seth stood in the living room. They’d fought but, gripping Seth around the chest with one arm, the perp had jabbed a needle into his neck. He passed out and came to in the basement. The man was getting a portable tattoo gun from a backpack.

Sachs displayed a picture of an American Eagle tattoo machine.

‘Yeah, that looks like what he had. He was pissed off I’d come to and gave me another shot. But then he suddenly stopped. He kind of cocked his head. I saw he had an earbud in. It was like somebody warned him.’

Sachs grimaced. ‘There’s no evidence he’s working with anybody. It was probably a police scanner.’

Costing all of $59.99. And if you act now, you get a list of frequencies of your favorite police department.

‘He just shoved his stuff into his backpack and ran. I passed out again.’

She asked for a description and learned what she expected: ‘White male around thirty, I’d guess. What I could see of his hair it was dark, round face. Light eyes. Blue or gray. Kind of weird, that color. But I really couldn’t see much. He had this yellowish see through mask on.’ His voice was soft. ‘Scared the hell out of me. And this tattoo. On his … yeah, his left arm. Red. A snake with legs.’

‘A centipede?’

‘Could be. A human face. Way creepy.’ He closed his eyes for a minute, actually shivered.

Sachs showed him the Identi Kit picture that the near victim Harriet Stanton had done at the hospital. Seth looked at it but just shook his head. ‘Could be – the face was round like that. The eyes’re the same. But I just can’t be sure. I’m trying to think about what he was wearing. I really can’t remember. Something dark, I think. But it could’ve been orange tie dye, for all I know. Seeing that mask and the tattoo, I was really freaked out.’

‘Wonder why?’ Sachs offered with a droll smile.

‘I better call my parents. They might hear about this. I want to tell them I’m okay.’

‘Sure.’

While Seth did this, dialing with shaking hands, Sachs called Rhyme. She gave him the details. ‘Cheyenne’s running the scene.’

‘Good.’

‘She’ll get everything over to you in a half hour.’

He disconnected.

Seth winced as he pressed his bandaged left wrist, the one that had taken the bulk of his weight and been cut by the handcuffs. ‘What does he want, Amelia? Why’s he doing this?’

‘We aren’t sure. It seems he was inspired by a perp Lincoln and I investigated years go. The first case we worked together.’

‘Oh, Pam told me about that. The Bone Collector, right?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Serial killer?’

‘Not technically. Serial killing’s a sado sexual crime – if the perp’s male. The criminal a decade ago had another agenda and so does this one. The first killer was obsessed with bones; our unsub’s obsessed with skin. ’Cause we stopped him a few times, he’s turned on us. He must’ve found out Pam and I are close and he went after her. You had the bad luck to be here at the wrong time.’

‘Better me than Pam. I–’

‘Seth!’

The front door to the building flew open and Pam, breathless after her run from the subway burst into the hall. She threw herself into his arms before he had even risen to his feet. He wobbled and nearly fell.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine, I guess,’ he muttered. ‘Bumped and scraped a little.’ Seth glanced at her with hollow eyes, wary eyes. It was as if he were struggling to keep from blaming her for the attack. Pam noticed, frowned. She wiped tears then swiped away strands of hair plastered to her pink cheeks.

Sachs put her arm around the girl, sensed the tension and let go. She stepped back.

‘What happened?’ Pam asked.

The detective explained, not sparing any details. Given the difficult life that Pam had experienced, she wasn’t a person you had to hand feed hard news to.

Still, her taut face seemed to take on an accusatory gaze as she listened to the story, as if it was Sachs’s fault the killer had come here. Sachs dug a fingernail into her thumb, hard.

Cheyenne Edwards appeared in the doorway, still in coveralls but without the face mask or surgeon’s cap. She carted a milk crate containing a dozen plastic and paper bags.

‘Chey, how’s it look?’

The officer grimaced and said to Sachs, ‘Had to save his life, did you? I mean, could you get any more outsiders into that storeroom? One of the most contaminated scenes I’ve ever run.’ She laughed and then winked at the young man. ‘Can I roll you?’

‘Can you–?’

‘The perp touched you, right?’

‘Yeah, grabbed me around the chest when he injected me with that crap.’

Edwards took a dog hair roller and collected trace everywhere on his shirt that Seth indicated. She bagged the adhesive strips and headed to the CSU rapid response van, calling, ‘I’ll get this stuff to Lincoln.’

Sachs said to Pam, ‘You can’t stay here. I think you should move into your bedroom at Lincoln’s. We’ll have officers here until you pack what you need.’

The young woman looked at Seth, and the implicit question that fluttered between them was: I could stay with you, right?

He said nothing.

Sachs said, ‘And, Seth, you should probably stay with some friends or your family. He could’ve gotten your address. You’re a witness and that means you’re at risk.’ This was purely practical, not a ploy to separate Romeo and Juliet. Pam, though, shot Sachs an expression that said, I know what you’re up to.

Seth wasn’t looking at Pam as he said, ‘There’re a couple guys I know from the ad agency. Have a place in Chelsea. I can crash there.’ Sachs could see he wasn’t concealing his blame for Pam very well.

‘I hope it won’t have to be long. And?’ she asked Pam. ‘You coming to Lincoln’s?’

Her eyes looked over Seth with dismay. She said softly, ‘Think I’ll stay with my family.’

Referring to the foster family who’d raised her, the Olivettis.

A good choice. But Sachs was nonetheless stabbed by jealousy. By the subtle reproach. And the blatant choice of words.

My family.

Which doesn’t include you.

‘I’ll drive you there,’ Sachs said.

‘Or we could take the train,’ Pam said, glancing at Seth.

‘They want me to go to the hospital,’ he said. ‘For tests, I guess. After that I think I’ll just go hang with the guys downtown.’

‘Well, I could go with you. To the hospital at least.’

‘Naw, just after this … kind of want to chill. Get some alone time, you know?’

‘Sure. I guess. If you want.’

He staggered to his feet and walked into her apartment, collected his jacket and computer bag, then returned. He hugged Pam once, in a brotherly way, and pulled on his jacket and snagged his bag, then joined the EMTs outside, who helped him into the ambulance.

‘Pam–’

‘Not a word. Don’t say a word,’ the young woman growled. She pulled out her cell phone and placed a call to her ‘family’, asking for a ride. She walked inside. Sachs asked a patrolman to keep an eye on her until the Olivettis showed up. He said he would.

Then her phone hummed. She glanced at caller ID and answered, saying to Lincoln Rhyme, ‘I’m finished here. I’ll–’

The criminalist’s grim voice interrupted. ‘He got another vic, Sachs.’

Oh, no. ‘Who?’

‘Lon Sellitto.’

CHAPTER 43

Lincoln Rhyme observed that he’d have no problems getting in to the critical care unit of Hunter University Medical Center, where Lon Sellitto had been admitted not long before. The place was, of course, fully disabled accessible. Houses of healing are made for wheels as much as feet.

‘Oh, Lincoln, Amelia.’ Rachel Parker, Sellitto’s partner of many years, rose and gripped Rhyme’s hand and then hugged Sachs. She turned to Thom and threw her arms around him too.

The handsome, solid woman, whose face was red from crying, sat back down in one of the orange Fiberglas chairs in the scuffed room. Two vending machines, one of soda, the other full of sugary or salty treats in crisp cellophane bags, were the only decorations.

‘How is he?’ Sachs asked.

‘They don’t know yet. They don’t know anything.’ Rachel wiped more tears. ‘He came home. He said he had the flu and just wanted to lie down for a bit. When I was leaving for my shift he didn’t look good. I left but then I thought, no, no, he doesn’t have the flu. It’s something else.’ Rachel was a nurse and had worked trauma rooms for some years. ‘I came back and found him convulsing and vomiting. I cleared an airway and called nine one one. The medic said it seemed to be poisoning. What had he eaten or had to drink recently? They thought it was food poisoning. But no way. You should’ve seen him.’

‘Sachs, show your shield. Tell somebody that Lon was running a case involving water hemlock, tetrodotoxin, concentrated nicotine and a plant that contains atropine, hyoscyamine and scopolamine. Oh, and hypochlorous acid. That might help them.’

She scribbled this down and walked to the nurses’ station, relayed the information and then returned.

‘Was he attacked? Tattooed?’ Rhyme asked. Then explained about the unsub’s MO.

‘No. He must’ve ingested it,’ said Rachel. She straightened her mass of brown hair, laced with gray strands. ‘On the way to the hospital he came to briefly. He was pretty disoriented but he looked at me and seemed to recognize me. His eyes, they kept flipping into and out of focus. The pain was terrible! I think he broke a tooth, his jaw was pressed so tight together.’ A sigh. ‘He said a couple of things. First, that he’d had a bagel with some salmon, cream cheese. At a deli in Manhattan, downtown.’

‘Unlikely to get any poison into his food in a public facility,’ Rhyme said.

‘I thought that too. But he said something else.’

‘What was that?’ Sachs asked.

‘He said your name, Amelia. And then “coffee”. Or “the coffee”. Does that mean anything?’

‘Coffee.’ Sachs grimaced. ‘It sure does. At the Belvedere scene there was a fireman walking around with cartons of coffee. He offered some to both of us. Lon took one. I didn’t.’

‘Fireman?’ Rhyme asked.

‘No,’ Sachs said grimly. ‘It was Eleven Five, wearing a fireman’s uniform. Goddamn it! He was right in front of us. Of course that’s who it was. I remember he was wearing gloves when he passed out the coffee. Jesus. He was two feet away from me. And had a bio mask on. Naturally.’

‘Excuse me.’ A voice behind them.

The doctor was a slight East Indian with a powdery complexion and busy fingers. He blinked when he noted the pistol on Sachs’s right hip then relaxed, seeing the gold shield on the left. Rhyme’s wheelchair received a fast, uninterested glance.

‘Mrs Sellitto?’

Rachel stepped forward. ‘It’s Parker. Ms. I’m Lon’s partner.’

‘I’m Shree Harandi. The chief toxicologist here.’

‘How is he? Please?’

‘Yes, well, he is stable. But his condition is not good, I must tell you. The substance he ingested was arsenic.’

Rachel’s face filled with dismay. Sachs put her arm around the woman.

Arsenic was an element, a metalloid, which meant it had characteristics of metals and non metals, like antimony and boron. And it was, of course, extremely toxic. Rhyme reflected that the unsub had moved beyond plant based toxins to a different category altogether – elemental poisons were no more dangerous but they were easier to come by since they had commercial uses and could simply be purchased in lethal strengths; you didn’t need to extract and concentrate them.

‘I see there are police here.’ Now he glanced at the wheelchair with more understanding. ‘Ah, I’ve heard about you. You are Mr Rhymes.’

‘Rhyme.’

‘And I know Mr Sellitto is a police officer too. You gave me the information about the possible poisons?’

‘That’s right,’ Sachs said.

‘Thank you for that but we determined arsenic quickly. Now, I must tell you. His condition is critical. The dose of the substance was high. The organs affected are the lungs, kidneys, liver and skin and he’s already had changes in fingernail pigmentation known as leukonychia striata. That is not a good sign.’

‘Inorganic arsenite?’ Rhyme asked.

‘Yes.’

Arsenic (III) is the most dangerous of all types of the toxin. Rhyme was quite familiar with the toxin. He’d run two cases in which it had been used as a murder weapon – in both cases spouses (one husband, one wife) had dispatched their partners with the substance.

Three other cases he’d run of suspected arsenic poisoning had turned out to be accidental. The toxin occurs naturally in groundwater, particularly where fracking – high pressure geologic fracturing to extract oil and gas – has occurred.

In fact, throughout history, for every intentional victim of arsenic poisoning – like Francesco I de’ Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany – there were many more accidental victims: Napoleon Bonaparte, possibly done in by the wallpaper of the rooms to which he’d been exiled on St Helena; Simón Bolívar (the water in South America); and the American ambassador to Italy in the 1950s (flaking paint in her residence). It was also possible that the madness of King George was due to the metalloid.

‘Can we see him?’ Sachs asked.

‘I’m afraid not. He’s unconscious. But a nurse will call you when he comes to.’

Rhyme noted and, for Rachel’s sake, appreciated the conjunction.

When, not if.

The doctor shook hands. ‘You believe someone actually did this intentionally?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Oh, my.’

His mobile rang and without a word he turned away to answer.